DEATH TWITCH
by Bad Ronald
Summary: Our favorite legendary gas-masked Umbrella agent, now old, weak, and slowly dying on his deathbed, wakes up to see his old battle uniform staring back at him. Thus begins the desperate, final battle for the ailing life of the 4th Survivor.
1. ONE

**DEATH TWITCH  
**

Jeremy Urbano Rosete (Bad Ronald)

I'm lying there on the hospital bed, my frail, degraded, viral-ridden body shuddering with wracking breaths. Stale air barely makes it way through the atrophied tunnels of my lungs before I exhale it out again. My red-rimmed eyes, looking out from the plastic translucent breathing mask secured on my face, is a clear sign I'm supposed to be sleeping.

After all, I'm too old and I'm too tired and I've got no place in this world, not anymore. My usefulness has dried out long ago. But I can't sleep. Because every time I close my eyes, my heart shatters into a million pieces. Every time I close my eyes, I find myself thrust into the old times, the times when I was _the best_, and worse yet is the yearning, the desperate _wanting _to go back, back to the war, the endless, eternal war. And I can't.

Instead, my glazed eyes swivel about like they've been doing for years on end, looking every place and no place at once. My eyes, roving unsteadily across the room, finally settle on a murky black shape on the wall...

And my heart skips a beat. Then it starts hammering uncontrollably in my brittle ribcage, with what could be the last drop of adrenaline left in my system spreading throughout this false vessel that is my dying body. My hands, always shaking, become still for the first time in a long time, the old familiar steel-blue feeling creeping back into my fingers. My mouth, once cracked and dry and constantly quivering, presses itself into a tight, narrow line. My eyesight, forever unsteady and fuzzed over with haze, clears up back into the eagle eyes of old, every detail of the black shape jumping out at me, every loving stitch of that beautiful uniform, my uniform, my true skin…

Crimson eyepieces glare back at me, the florescent lights of this sterile room reflected on the edges, winking surreptitiously at me. The insectile design of the black gas mask, the silver lining of the filter canister, it makes my chest ache with a burning passion. My face. I thought I lost it forever. My fingers stretch open, unconsciously reaching out for it, the black gas mask with the red-tinted lenses… my old face. My real face!

Below my old face, pinned on the wall, is my old skin, the uniform battle-hardened and ready for action, the BDU belt webbings, the clip pockets, the pads, the red-and-white symbol displayed predominately on the shoulder pads. The hands and the feet are there, black leather gloves and steel-toed boots, the laces tied up just the way I used to do it.

It's all there. It's all back.

There's a burning in my chest, shearing so hot I can't stand it, my insides feel as if they're boiling. My heart quails again, roaring for the war. It's unbearable. I can't stay here. I can't stay in this bed. Not with my true body looking back at me. Not with my whole identity calling my name. I have to go to it. I have to go to the war.

So I do. At first, the leather straps binding my wrists and ankles hold me back as I try to sit up. They hold me down and I can feel myself sinking away into the soft bed, away from my real body, away from the uniform, away from its beautiful war cry. Gritting my teeth and ignoring the jagged softness that I feel inside my mouth, a bitter reminder that I have only a cluster of front teeth left in my gums, I utter a ferocious war cry of my own, flexing my muscles as hard as I can, pushing my frail, false vessel of a body past its limits, and the restraints snap away as if they were paper.

Still in the bed, I reach out for the uniform, and the mighty strength of old leaves me, rushing out of my body and I sink back into the bed, unable to even blink away the hot tears swelling up in my crusted eyes. Following the loss is this damn crippling vertigo, the room spinning rapidly into a kaleidoscopic frenzy, the uniform looming over me, swathing from the wall over the ceiling, becoming huge and demonic. I crumple back into bed, wheezing, my energy leaking away through my dry mouth, the poison in me coalescing behind my breathing mask. I rip it out because this is not the mask I want, it's not the face that I so badly need back. I look at the real mask, seeing it stare coldly back at me, the two red-tinted circles shining in the light.

The light grows, brighter and brighter, overtaking the entire room. So I'm forced to close my eyes, knowing that if I do...

I'll go back…

* * *

**NOTES: **This was actually an old idea of mine, but the tone was vastly different, and his character was the complete opposite of what he is now. When I read it years later, I just had to completely rewrite it, because the idea, though it was so great, was sadly wasted by my amateurish writing.

This chapter was short, but the next will be pretty long, basically a retelling of the 4th Survivor scenario on Umbrella Chronicles with a couple of liberties. However, I busted my ass to make it an enjoyable read, So wait up for that one...

Please read & review. Especially review! Please! I worked incredibly hard on this one (I think you can tell, too), and I really do want to know what you think.

C'mon. Just press the little 'go' box next to 'submit review.' You know you wanna...


	2. TWO

**NOTE: **As I mentioned on the previous chapter, this one is basically a retelling of the 4th Survivor scenario in Umbrella Chronicles, but with a few (okay, a lot) of liberties taken, with the events, and especially with the dialogue and the radio chatter. It's written in the past tense, not the present like in the previous chapter, because this one is a flashback.

As a treat, I've also included in a line that's easily recognizable from a particular HILARIOUS romantic comedy... with zombies.

Enjoy!

* * *

…In the water. Getting up from my knees, I shook my head clear of the filthy water as it slimed down the lenses of my gas mask. Gathering in my surroundings, I found myself in the sewers, having been knocked out by the Birkin monster…

The Birkin monster. My mission objective— the G-Virus.

A thought ran through my mind, sobering me out of the haze.

The G-Virus was broken.

I immediately checked my right pocket, slipping a gloved hand inside and felt the small viral tube safely intact. Good. I had accomplished the first objective. Now, the second objective… to deliver the virus. And the mission objective had top priority over everything else.

So I went on with the mission. Quickly recalling what sector of the sewers I was in, I turned my head to the side and, just as expected, I located a hidden ladder leading upwards to the K-9 kennels in the bowels of the Raccoon Police Department precinct.

After climbing the ladder and scoping the room to check if it was clear, I turned on the built-in radio in my helmet and spoke, "Alpha Team here. Respond."

The response was instantaneous, the callous, mirthful voice overlapped with the sound of helicopter rotors: _"This is Night Hawk."_

"I have secured G," I said, my tone all business as I referred to the viral tube in my pocket. "I am all that is left of Alpha Team. I am on route to the rendezvous point."

The radio crackled with the chopper pilot's sardonic answer, _"Once again, only you survive… Mr. Death."_

"Roger that," I said just as coolly. "Don't be late."

I hustled forth, running double-time through the K-9 kennels, sighting three viral carrier Dobermans rushing towards me with gurgling barks. My Matilda pistol made short work of the reanimated canines, three rotting sleekly-shaped skulls punctured with three perfectly placed shots.

"_What happened to Birkin?" _Night Hawk queried, referring to the scientist who created the valuable virus residing in my pocket and tried to defend it with his life, only to fail miserably.

"He was injured in the firefight," I answered. "He injected himself with the G-Virus and… came back to life." If that was what you could call it.

"_I see. That's unfortunate," _the pilot said, and hearing the smirk in his voice, I knew he meant otherwise. _"How are the other G samples?"_

Reaching the door at the end of the kennel, I clutched the knob and opened it slowly, exiting the kennel and entering the basement corridor. I looked to the side to see three former civilians of Raccoon City turned virus carriers stumble their way towards me, their clothes torn and ragged, their decaying hands groping out as they reached out for food.

After they crumpled to the floor, courtesy of precise headshots, I answered the pilot's question: "The other G sample containers were damaged in the fight. I have the only intact sample left. The virus has likely contaminated the area. We'll have to quarantine."

"_Understood," _Night Hawk said._ "I'll put in the request—"_

"_What the hell are those things?!"_ a panicked voice interrupted on the radio, crackling with static. It was obviously a civilian channel.

I frowned, tapped the radio, trying to get in contact with Night Hawk again, but it only switched rapidly from channel to channel, broadcasting snippets of police officers issuing frenzied, confused commands to each other, and hapless citizens screaming for their lives. I figured it must've been radio cross-talk interference. Connection on my end was probably bad.

No matter. A mere annoyance, nothing for me to be concerned about. I could continue my mission even with a haywire radio blaring in my ears. Stealing a glance at my watch, I saw that I had to hurry. The chopper would only stay on the rooftop of the R.P.D. precinct for five minutes before departing, with or without me. Armed with my Matilda pistol, TMP submachine gun, combat knife, plus a few grenades, I fought my way through the basement corridors under the R.P.D. precinct.

"—_It has been days now since the last contact with Raccoon City…"_

The moronic virus carriers in the dimly-lit corridors served no problem whatsoever, they were spread out away from each other as they slowly turned towards me.

"_Freeze! Don't come any closer!"_

It was astonishingly simple to knock the carriers over and shove them aside as I ran past, allowing me to preserve my ammo by jumping over their fallen corpses, their indignant moans fading behind me.

"—_I don't wanna hear it! I need backup, now!"_

The K-9 dog carriers in the parking garage posed some trouble, they weren't as easy to dodge since they had some primitive coordination in their attack behavior, but they weren't completely organized. I took advantage of that.

"_You're listening to 777, RC-Radio, the lucky station. And this is our last broadcast…_

I ran close to the parked cars, climbing up one as two dogs circled on both sides, and jumped over when they collided with each other. One dog carrier, attempting to flank me, instead crashed into the window of a police car after I deftly ducked under its leap, escaping out the door.

"_The Common Cure. Safeprin, from Umbrella Incorporated… side effects may include—"_

More virus carriers. The hallway leading to the holding cells was crammed with straggling groups of the undead, too tightly grouped for me to simply skirt past. They shuffled towards me in overwhelming numbers, groaning out a ghastly chorus.

"_If any of our listeners are still alive, get out of town."_

Calmly bringing up the Matilda, I utilized my sharpshooting skills to put them down, one by one, as they shuffled towards me. They dropped, headless, but not fast enough, the swarm pushing closer and closer.

"—_The municipal government is paralyzed, leaving the city's poor citizens helpless…"_

Lining up headshots with the Matilda took much too long, especially with the horde shambling uncomfortably close to my position, so I holstered the pistol and took out the TMP submachine gun. Aiming carefully at their upper torsos, I drummed out the rounds and spread out the shots to hit every single carrier, knocking them stumbling backwards into each other and tangling them up. While they were dazed, stunned out of their trajectory, I immediately slung the TMP and drew the Matilda. This time, with the undead carriers reeling from the submachine gun blasts, all I had to do was sweep the Matilda around and tag them with quick, brisk headshots to continue on with my mission.

"_Have faith! Help is on the way!"_

I appreciated having non-sticky soles beneath my boots so I wouldn't slip on the bloody floor as I darted by. Then I skidded in my steps as a giant spider carrier crawled out from the corner of the holding cell corridor, its size easily enough to dwarf the previous pack of dog carriers combined, its hairy legs bristling as its crimson-spattered mandibles, both as long as my arm, clicked rapidly in anticipation. No way to get around it so I plugged out two shots, puncturing two of its eight beady black eyes, and hopped over its twitching legs when it staggered to the side, leaving it behind as it howled shrilly in agony.

"_Quick & Fast Relief! Adravil, from Umbrella Incorporated—"_

Another giant spider tried to get the drop on me, but I cranked back my leg and punted it aside with all my strength, burying my steel-toe boot into its bloated midsection. It fell away, slamming into the wall. Recovering quickly, the giant arachnid skittered slowly around me, going for another try. It was ridiculously easy to outrun.

"—_The station's surrounded… but the good news is, folks, we're still on the air!"_

With the slow spider far behind, I reached the stairs up to the police station, skipping two steps as a time, ascending quickly to the precinct's first floor. Frantic barks telegraphed the carrier dogs headed my way, giving me plenty of time to pick them off shot by shot as they sprinted into view.

"_There's just so many! We can't save them all!" _

The walls of the first floor corridors were layered with flyers, framed photos of over-achieving police officers, and S.T.A.R.S. recruitment posters. Two more dog carriers popped from the corner of the hallway, two more headshots popped out from the Matilda.

_"…What the hell's going on with this town?"_

Making my way down the corridor plastered with useless junk, I approached the door to the department offices. Since the corridor was clear and I could spare a few moments, I took the chance to stretch my muscles, rubbing the kinks out of my shoulders in preparation for whatever was in the office. From the sound of it, a couple of virus carriers inside and… was that hissing? The office door burst open, prompting me to back away as a scaled, green skinned monstrosity leapt through the doorway, hunched over with murder in its glowing yellow eyes. I recognized it at first sight, one of Umbrella's secret underground projects, classified the Hunter series. Its muscular arms were long enough to almost brush the floor, tapered off with long claws, and its wide lips peeled back to reveal gleaming razor teeth.

_"I'm at 555 Warren Street. Please hurry and send someone up here, they're all over the place— Oh Jesus! The windows!"_

The Matilda would do no good here. Holstering it away, I backed up as the hunter advanced suddenly, hissing primordially, and yanked out the TMP as the hunter began its leap, swinging the submachine gun around and blowing the green beast out of the air just in time. It landed in a heap, struggling to get up, but with one sweep of the TMP, its kneecaps decorated the walls in a flurry of blackish-red. It slumped back down on the floor, yowling furiously as I ran past it, but not before stepping impudently on its ruined leg as I did so.

"—_and Raccoon City, just like the sin-filled cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, is truly finished…"_

I entered the department offices, closing the door behind me, hearing the hunter thump ineffectually against the frame. A small gaggle of undead virus carriers in tattered police uniforms were mulling around the office. I looked at my watch to check my time, then decided against shooting them all, it would only waste my time and bullets.

_"Escape to ecstasy… Aqua Cure, from Umbrella Incorporated—"_

Taking out a frag grenade, I rolled it over to the carriers and took cover behind a desk. The loud explosion shattered all the glass windows in the office, accompanied with the brutal rain of carrier body parts. I got up, scoped around, saw to my satisfaction that the grenade had cleared out most of the place. A cleanly-decapitated carrier head thumped against my boot and I instantly punted it on my way out into the adjoining waiting hall, seeing it crash into a file cabinet and drop perfectly into a wastebasket.

_"—The damn things just won't stay dead! No matter what we do—"_

Exiting out the waiting room, I found myself in the spacious reception lobby with an ornate statue placed tastefully in the middle of the lobby, a reception desk behind it. The lobby, made of two floors, had a second floor balcony overseeing the bottom floor. Across the left side of the second floor balcony was where the helipad would be located.

Loud thumping sounds prompted me to turn to the sight of the front entrance doors by the stairs leading outside bursting open, a throng of carriers spilling through, rushing quickly at me like a raging river of undead, most of the carriers tripping over the stairs and crashing on the ground, trampled by the other undead trying to get through the packed entrance.

"—_by removing the head, or destroying the brain… I repeat—"_

Way too many numbers to deal with, so I retreated to the doors on the left, booting them open to reveal the information room with another crowd of carriers, thinner numbers this time. I thought of using a grenade to clear out the room again, but discarded the idea, the other carriers from the main entrance were filling the reception lobby and there would be no safe cover from the blast. I readied the Matilda and aimed low, squeezed out my shots, firing rapidly into their kneecaps to drop them, summarily blasting out their brainpan when they keeled over.  
_"This concludes our report on the current situation."_

Rounding the corner of the huge file cabinets in the middle of the information room, I watched as the door leading into the evidence room slam open, one carrier stumbling out, followed by another, then a third carrier, then a fourth… too many were piling out here too, blocking my exit.

"_Oh, shit… Oh, shit, oh shit! They got through! They're inside—"_

I backtracked and peered out the doorway leading back to the reception lobby. There were more than forty carriers shambling around, but the lobby was indeed so spacious that they were spread out evenly, making it easy for me to avoid them to reach the reception desk.

"_It's over, man—"_

A giant spider blocked my way, thumping down from the ceiling. One quick glance at my watch told me I was seriously running out of time. Rather than fight, I retreated, backpedaling and vaulting over the reception desk, barely missing the computer. Another giant spider dropped down from the ceiling and landed on the desk, shattering the computer and office chair, priming its furry legs to leap.

"—_It's all over!"_

The spider leapt just as I evaded its oncoming rush. As it bounced bodily off the wall, its thick limbs scrabbling for purchase, I sighted the emergency ladder leading from the first floor to the second floor open hallway and made for it, climbing the ladder as quickly as I could to get away from the oversized arachnids.

"—_WE'RE SCREWED!!"_

I lifted myself over the ladder onto the second floor open hallway, laid out like a balcony spanning the left-side, back-side, and right-side of the lobby. Seeing a surreal, tall humanoid shaped creature with giant leaves instead of hands, a wide, slurping closed petal-shaped pod for a head, closing in my position, I also recognized the name of this creature— Plant 43, codenamed Ivy. The Ivy's pod head opened, four petals splitting apart to reveal a mottled green-yellow sac inside, a defense mechanism consisting of spitting acid.

Then the sac shrunk into itself, punctured with a bullet courtesy of my Matilda. The Ivy's pod head snapped closed as it shivered in agony, its entire body exuding putrid, gaseous smoke as it collapsed, literally melting into the floor. Two more Ivies blocked my way to the helipad, looming before me, but from past experience I knew these creatures were lightweights, not too hard to put down with the Matilda. After finishing them off, and crossing almost halfway to the final corridors that would lead to the helipad, I was interrupted by a familiar piercing, hissing shriek. Sighting a hunter sprinting down the other side of the open hallway eager on its way to make me its next meal, I unloaded the Matilda on its blurred form as it crossed the other side, observing it as it rolled onto the floor dead from all the lead in its system. I released the spent clip in the pistol, slapping a fresh one home.

Crossing the remaining length of the open hallway, I entered the break room and saw that it was clear. I kept my guard up, though, keeping myself prepared for anything.

The door behind me splintered to pieces and as I turned, two big green shapes rushed at me in the air, total blurs, more fucking hunters with their claws open at the ready, damn it, shit, no time to switch to TMP so I leapt back, firing center mass on one hunter as fast as I could until it flew past, emptying the clip onto the next hunter twice as fast, both dead before they hit the ground. My heart pounded rapidly and I laid a clenched fist on my chest to steady it… that was too close a call for my tastes. I had to take it slow, exert more caution.

Reloading the Matilda again and shaking my head at the colossal waste of ammo on just two hunters, I frowned as I felt no more pistol clips left in my gear, the sole clip in the Matilda was the last one left. My trigger finger throbbed angrily, sore with the intense rapid-fire use, but I kept my gun trained into the room for any more surprises while stepping backwards into the open corridor behind me.

Sighting a murky green in the corner of my eye, I swiveled around into action, bastard hunters were becoming a real pain in the ass. But it wasn't a hunter, instead, an Ivy opened its petals in attack, thrusting out its elongated leaf-studded arms to which I was quick to dodge, pressing myself up against the wall as the arms flew by, and retaliated with the pistol, finishing it with one bullet only. As it melted into the floor, I noticed the complete silence in the room and realized that the radio hadn't been broadcasting for some time. Maybe it was fixed now?

Tapping the radio to activate it, I said, "This is Alpha Team. Respond."

Nothing. I tried again two more times, then gave up. I was opening the door to the secretary offices when my radio crackled tentatively, then fizzed out. I tapped it again, waiting. Checking my watch, I then continued on, having no more time left to waste… only two minutes remaining.

Three carriers, all of them missing legs, were sprawled out onto the floor. They craned their fetid heads up at my entrance, crawling leisurely towards me, their crusted mouths gaping open in primal hunger. Their glacial movements made it easy for me to just step around them.

"—_Alpha..."_

I stopped, waiting. It wasn't Night Hawk, I could tell that much, the speaker was female. Maybe it was one of the R.P.D. officers, or even the S.T.A.R.S. calling for their own Alpha Team division. Shrugging, I moved on into the final corridor, its floors paved with once-polished, now-scuffed wood. My goal was the door at the end of this corridor, leading out to the helipad.

"—_Alpha—"_

Twittering screeches, along with the flutters of diseased wings, followed the small black shadows rushing my way. I grunted in surprise as one of the shadows impacted with my gas mask, knocking next to the left eyepiece and veering off with a surprised squawk. I stumbled backwards at the sudden impact, almost tripping over a carcass of a former citizen with a face that looked completely covered in small scratches.

That thing that hit me was quick as hell, almost too quick to see, but I knew what just happened. A carrier crow tried to go for my eyes, not expecting them to be protected behind thick red lenses.

"—_Sewers…"_

I brought up my arm to protect my masked face and ducked, aiming carefully at the rest of the bombarding crows speeding my way and shrieking shrilly, trying my best to plug them with single shots. One of them escaped my expert marksmanship and got a free dig at me, clawing, biting. Grabbing it out of the air, I felt its rotting feathers and greying muscles slough away in my crushing grip even through the leather gloves, and threw it back into the cluster of the other crows, scattering them wide enough for me to gun down the rest with the Matilda.

"—_Alpha Team… Goblin 6—"_

Ah. That explained it. The transmission was one of the Umbrella Security Service sector, and Goblin 6 was one of my team members. Not the pilot, so nothing of importance.

"—_Received your call. Currently at point K12 in the sewers…"_

Her voice was fraught with agony and breathless terror, but I ignored the useless message as a creature rounded the corridor, clinging to the wall, this one looking like a completely skinned man, its primed muscles red and glistening in the dim overhead florescent lights, its talons tapping on the wallpaper. A licker.

"…_Please respond… please—"_

I watched the licker's long, whip-like tongue uncoil between the stained razor teeth in its open mouth, the tongue snaking upwards past its exposed brain, spiraling tightly, preparing to lash out at me. I knew it could hit me even at this distance, so I took up the TMP and shot it from the hip, catching the licker full in the mouth and shredding its tongue apart.

"—_Can't move. Requesting assistance… I repeat, r-requesting assistance."_

Like I cared? I couldn't spare time on worthless people who depended on others for help.

"_Please… Please! I got your call, I-I heard you! Isn't anybody there—"_

Another licker crawled towards me on the ceiling, so I used the TMP and dropped the creature to the floor in a splash of blood.

"—_I just wanna survive! Oh God, PLEASE, DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!"_

How annoying. Irritated at hearing Goblin 6's impotent whining as I gunned down Umbrella's creations and fought for my own life, I finally answered the radio as I flung open the door to the helipad, knowing I should be saving my breath instead, and coldly replied to her:

"This is war. Survival is _your_ responsibility."

* * *

**NOTE: **This was an insanely fun chapter to write! The next ones will be better, however, and the flashback to his very first mission as a rookie operative is coming up!

If you liked this chapter, then you know the drill… the little 'go' box next to 'submit review' is feeling real lonely…


	3. THREE

**NOTE: **Sorry about this chapter being so short, but I wanted to get going with the NEXT chapter, which will be about our favorite Umbrella agent's first rookie mission, and will explain in detail how his cold persona and famous "Mr. Death" nickname came to be.

* * *

My eyes crack open, seeing the uniform and the mask on the wall regarding me blankly, the cold, sober reality quickly replacing the heaven of the warzone. I choke back a hopeless cry. My complete identity, so close after countless years of being without it… and I can't even get out of this fucking bed to go to it. The mask continues to watch my fruitless struggle, the two red lenses staring holes into my empty soul, willing me the strength to get up, to take hold of it once again.

I answer the call, the old steel-blue strength flowing into me once more, setting my crackling elbows on the bed, shakily lifting myself up to a sitting position. My stomach feels sunken in and my back wrenches in response, but at least I'm not uselessly lying down anymore. At least my sight is level enough to lock gazes with the mask's crimson stare. Wheezing, I slowly rotate myself so my legs flop over the edge of the bed, my withered feet landing on the floor with brutal slaps. I can't be sure, but I don't think I've left this bed for years. So I do just that, my skinny, frail legs shuddering under my weight, but holding me up nonetheless, a mystery in itself.

I look at the uniform on the wall and I realize that it's no mystery, my frail human vessel containing what's left of me can feel the real body nearby, the uniform, waiting patiently for me, and it's clear the vessel too is tired of rotting, the vessel wants back into the warzone. The vessel wants to feel alive again, and my true body, the uniform, is key.

The mission objective is to get to the uniform. To become whole again. And the mission objective has top priority over everything else.

One shaky step. Two. Three, then four, and then a stumbling five, and I'm this close to reaching it. My hand gropes out, the fingers tingling as they near the suit.

The door opens, and though I ignore it, from the corner of my eye, I still see a young nurse holding a tray of processed baby food waltz in with a slight smile, humming to herself. As soon as she walks in and sees me, her eyes widen, she drops the tray, the food splattering on the floor.

I grit my teeth at her interruption, startled once again at the jagged softness pressing against each other in my mouth… I forget I have only a few front teeth left. Just enough to be able to talk in a harsh whisper. But I still feel the old iron clench of my jaw when I look up at the suit, my true body, and then I hear the nurse call me by that wretched, weakling, _human _name again and again.

"Mr. Cooper!" she cries out, covering her mouth in shock. "Mr. Cooper, what… how are you… how did… oh my! Please, you mustn't move, Mr. Cooper!"

Shut up, you bitch, I want to tell her. Don't call me that. Don't fucking call me that. That's not my name. It's the name of a pathetic man, a dying man, a man the world has no use for. And I'm not that man. I'm not dying. I cannot die, because I am Death.

I want to tell her all this, but I can't waste my breath. I can't lose my focus, not now. So when she grasps my arm, pulling me away from the uniform, pulling me away from my salvation, I summon all the strength left in my vessel to shove her aside, not noticing her cry out in surprise as she trips over the spilled food and lands on her rear, not noticing the astonished, hurt, frightened expression on her face. With the uniform in front of me now, I reach out with my old shooting hand to touch it. My shoulder flares out in agonizing pain, my arm creaks like a rusty hinge, my hand cracks open, my fingers grasping out wildly for the uniform, and I shut my eyes...

* * *

**NOTE: **Look! It's a magic box! It says 'go', right next to 'submit review.' Legend has it that if you click it, and comment on this story, you'll meet your soul mate!

...Hey, if it works for chain letters...


	4. FOUR

**NOTE: **Ahh what a n00b!

* * *

…The uniform was uncomfortable against my body as the gas mask choked me slightly. My breath curled up from the filter, restricting my breathing. The damn uniform felt a couple sizes too tight as I sat in the USS helicopter with the rest of the team, but I wasn't complaining. Only rookies complained, and I was determined to prove that although I was the new guy on my first mission, I was still a permanent valuable addition to the USS Alpha Team, not some useless rookie. I've went through the grueling military training program at Rockfort and worked hard enough to become one out of the top five trainee operatives to actually achieve the fabled S-Ranking in all scenario sessions. I utilized all of my wits and all of my training to the best of my ability, to ensure that I wouldn't be shelved aside as second-best.

I shook my head, willing myself to stop reminiscing about Rockfort. Those were just artificially engineered scenarios that I passed, but I was still untested in real-life situations. This mission would be the deciding point if I was cut out for the job or not.

So I recalled the mission objective perfectly in my mind: Infiltrate BioJect Corporations stationed in Bluecreek and retrieve particular indispensable files of viral research, all of them located in the BioJect mainframe computer labeled Queen-01. Extraction method would be the computer disk our team leader held. Use any and all force necessary to clear out obstacles and witnesses. My first mission and I would accomplish the task without hesitation. I would not be the typical new guy, slowing the rest of the team down. No, I knew deep inside in my heart that I would ascend the ranks and become the best. Not _one_ of the best. _The_ best.

I went over my gear, checking over the USS standard-issue MP5 and patting each of my pockets to ensure each had at least one clip safely nestled inside. My combat knife, securely fashioned to the front of my vest, was a sobering reassurance.

As soon as the chopper touched down on the BioJect helipad, our team leader, codenamed agent SWEET, slid open the chopper door with a bang, taking up his MP5 and sighting the BioJect security guards quickly scrambling from their positions, converging towards our chopper. With casual ease, agent SWEET gunned them down, every one of them falling dead and sprawling on the floor in spreading pools of their own blood.

Agent SWEET looked at all of us and ordered, "What're you girls waiting for? Move out!"

We did so, jumping out of the chopper and following SWEET as he paused by the helipad door leading into the BioJect facility, forming up into position with me taking up the rear guard. As I reached the end of the line, almost all of the agents were staring at me, their crimson lenses gazing at me blankly. Even agent SWEET stared along with them, and when I heard the loud thud a couple yards behind me, I finally figured out why.

Ahh shit. You've got to be kidding me. I cursed soundlessly into my mask filter, realizing I fucked up right at the start. Some of the agents snickered at my glaring mistake. Most of them shook their heads in pity. Poor new guy, their body movements relayed to me. Looks like he just can't handle it, their gestures seemed to say. Looks like he's just going to slow us down.

One of them, a cocky operative codenamed Bell, crossed his arms and chuckled. He said, "Hey, new boy. Ya wanna get the ram sometime this year?"

I turned back, running to the waiting chopper to do my job, tugging out the specialized battering ram assigned for the mission. It was thin and smoothly cylinder-shaped, but heavy, too heavy, and thumped loudly next to me as I tried to drag it back to the team. The three latching pronged arms closed in on the body of the ram, giving it the foreboding appearance of a missile, as it screeched on the floor, gaining me a few more chuckles. One of the operatives, a female agent with the codename Toph, broke off from the rest and jogged over to me.

"Don't worry about them, rookie," she said jovially. "They always razz the new guys to shit anyway. You'll get used to it. Here, I'll help you out."

Humiliated beyond belief, I refused to accept further embarrassment. I gave her the cold shoulder, yanking the battering ram forcibly away from her grasp. Toph stepped back, clearly surprised.

I wasn't so pathetic as to need help lugging the stupid thing around and said, "Leave me alone. I don't need your help." I blinked in spite of myself. My voice had sounded so unexpectedly cold.

"What the…" she said, sounding hurt and betrayed. "Who the hell do you think you are, you snotnosed new boy? Fine, then! Have it your way, prick."

She shoved the battering ram away, visibly fuming under her gas mask, and stomped her way back to the rest of the agents. At least I managed to bring back the battering ram without grunting in effort. I was sure they heard my clipped, heavy breathing, but this time none of them said anything. Two other agents hefted up the ram easily, making my effort to bring the ram to the team feel even more humiliating.

Agent SWEET slowly stepped up to me, and I heard everyone suck in their breath, every one of their gas masks swiveling to face us.

SWEET was silent for a moment, looked over to the rest of the team, then back to me. His voice exuded grim authority through his mask as he said, "You gonna fuck up again, rookie?"

I stared him right in his red eye-pieces and, once more surprising myself again with the frigidity of my voice, "No, sir. I'm not planning to, sir."

It looked like my voice got to SWEET too, because he paused visibly before nodding.

"Good. Now get your shit together, and let's go."

SWEET kicked down the door, sending it flying off the hinges and clattering down the stairways below. A noisy entrance, but no one was around to hear. According to the mission parameters, all personnel were working at the labs at this hour, and the hallways were empty.

We trooped down the stairs, finally making our way into an empty corridor. Again, SWEET stopped, ordering us to synchronize our watches for the upcoming takeover. We did as ordered, then two of the agents picked up the battering ram again with SWEET taking up the front as the rest of the agents followed behind them, our weapons at the ready.

Skimming the halls, we found the main lab, a title above the high-tech sliding door reading Research & Development. It was key-card activated and couldn't be punted down like the helipad door. But the battering ram we brought along with us was a specially-engineered one, designed to be utilized on doors such as these.

Agent Toph, still smarting from my rebuke, shouldered me aside, setting up the machinery of the ram. She pressed the ram down onto the key-card door, the other two agents unfurling the pneumatic powered arm-prongs to latch them on the surface, magnetically grafting the ends of each prong as the ram reared back, suspended in the middle.

One of the agents switched it on, revealing a tug-lever for him to pull with one hand. He did so, and stepped back with the rest as a loud humming sound reverberated through the hall, electrical currents flashing from the door to the ram.

Toph, stubbornly keeping herself in front of me, forced me to take position behind her. I clutched my MP5 as the pneumatic ram shot forward on its iron prongs, impacting heavy, electrical sparks zapping out and emitting from the door as it shuddered under the weight of the blow.

Inside, surprised gasps and murmuring voices uttering curses could be heard.

"The hell was that?"

"Dammit, my coffee! Shit. Dr. Iverson, I need help cleaning this up…"

"I'm serious, guys, I saw that fucking door flash lightning or some shit—"

Again, the agent pulled back the tug-lever, charging the ram briefly before it slammed it against the door once more. This time, the door buckled in its frame, the bruised center now charred and smoking.

The voices inside the lab dialed up an octave, now panicked, screaming, realizing the seriousness of the situation. Quick, stumbling footsteps, discordant sounds of glass smashing, of chairs being knocked over.

Third time was the charm. The door crumpled in completely at the final impact, flying into the room with an electrical current visibly trailing with the ram attached to it, smashing a fleeing researcher flat to a bloody paste behind a file cabinet. The door and now-useless battering ram clanged to the ground with the remnants of the researcher clumped over and dripping down the cabinet. The agents around me brought their submachine guns up to lever, a dizzying array of clicks echoing behind my ears. They stepped past me, their guns blasting out bullet by bullet, cutting the scientists down with ease.

I blinked, hesitated, and cocked my head curiously at the sight of the scientists, these men and women with families, caught in the grip of total fear, doing their best to run away only to be mowed down by the MP5s. Their blood coughed into the air and stained their white lab coats, spraying onto the desks, the floor, the walls.

I blinked again. They were screaming. The scientists were screaming… For some reason, that was the damndest thing. The bio-creations and virus carriers we were trained to shoot in Rockfort never screamed like this. They always went down silently, or if they emitted a sound, it was always almost an outworldly pitch, not the bellowing, sobbing wails assailing my eardrums.

I was the only one not shooting, watching the carnage from behind my red eye-pieces, seeing for the first time the brittle fragility of human life, how quickly and brutally it could be snatched away by the easy pull of a trigger. Just like that. The bio-weapons in Rockfort took longer than this to die, but these people were dying so fast…

One of the operatives elbowed me out of my daze. I turned, shaking, and it was agent Bell, who said gleefully, "C'mon, new boy. Quit jerkin' off and join in on the fun!"

Snapped out of my initial shock, I fired my MP5 randomly into the screaming throng of scientists, my heart beating double-time and throwing off my aim even further, stacks of research papers, and files, and books fluttering into the air, coffee mugs and laptops shattering into fragments, shit what the hell am I doing—

"Hey, rookie, stop the spray n' pray!" Agent SWEET's voice rang out to me in the gunfire. "Localize your shots and group up your kills, the mainframe computer's straight ahead in the back wall, we don't want to damage it…"

With that, I sighted the mainframe computer, Queen-01— big, almost enough to encompass the entire top-half of the back wall, with a sprawling keyboard console stationed before it, it was hard to miss.

Then agent Bell fell over, crashing over a desk, his gas mask leaking blood from an exit wound between his red eye-pieces. The rest of us turned to the sight of smoke canisters clattering through the doorway into the labs. With a loud, popping sound, smoke fizzed out from the canisters, no doubt composed of incapacitating gas. Sure enough, the room became swathed with clumps of greenish-yellow fog, and the scientists who still managed to stay alive slumped to the floor, completely blacked out. My standard-issue mask filter worked perfectly, easily blocking out the gas, but my visibility dropped down to a near-zero. And from the sounds of the surprised squawks of my team members, it seemed that I wasn't the only one thrust in the dark.

I caught a glimpse of a man in green tactical armor, wearing a gas mask with a radically different design, an orange faceplate with two filters on both sides of the mask. The gun nestled in his hand looked like a military-issue M16, but I couldn't be sure because he disappeared into the smoke before I could bead on him.

The BioJect Heavy Security Force had reacted much faster than the mission briefing had assured us— we were told to expect, at the very least, a five minute window to complete our mission while BHSF troops kitted up for battle. But they were here now, and they were extremely well-trained.

Fleeting images of murky figures and flashes of gunfire strobed out into the smoke, ghosting away the positions but not the identities of the shooter. The gurgling shouts and wails of the USS agents made it clear that the BHSF troops knew how to use the smoke to their advantage, that somehow they were able to see through the fog and pick us off at their leisure.

The fog enshrouded me as the gunfire got closer and closer, riddling the desks nearby. One of the USS agents fell over me, knocking my MP5 out of my hands and bowling me over into a clumsy tangle as he cried out in agony, his stomach exploding in a torrent of shredded guts. I hurriedly pushed him away, scrambling away from the line of fire, and felt my skin burst out in a cold sweat as the poisonous grip of panic slowly enveloped my senses. Everything I had done in life seemed unmercifully pointless and hopelessly short in this place of errant death.

"No. I don't wanna die," my voice murmured out, crackling through the filter of my gas mask. "I don't wanna die."

Through the yellow haze, the pale skull of death glared back at me. The piercing sting of pure, primal fear jolted through me as I backpedaled on the blood-slicked floor, hyperventilating in my mask, groping for my weapon, for any weapon, because I didn't want to die. It was my first mission. I couldn't die here, not in this place, not now.

"I don't wanna die," I said, spinning it into a harried mantra. "I don't wanna die."

Pain. Like a grenade explosion rocking through my mind, murderous sparks of pain shot from my shoulder up to my skull, two bullets shearing my arm, another landing solidly in my right shoulder. I uttered a high shriek, more in surprise than hurt, and fired back crazily, the stock of my MP5 jarring my injured shoulder further into a whirling pit of agony.

It caught the oncoming BHSF troop right in his orange facemask, shattering it inwards, and he crumpled to a heap, his weapon clattering uselessly to the floor. I scrambled to my feet and shot at every vague form in the smoke, shot towards every flash of gunfire, plugging holes into the haze with total abandon, watching them fall to the floor in a flurry of wheezing groans and breathless screams. Whether they were BHSF or Umbrella, I didn't know. I didn't care. I was too scared to even think of anything except survival.

"I'm not gonna die!" I shouted out into the smoke, still shooting, dimly aware that I was running out of ammo. "You're gonna die, but I'm not gonna die!"

My gun, the traitor in my hands, clicked empty, the dry rattling sound blatting loud enough among the gunfire to actually stop the fight for a tense moment, the hidden remaining BHSF troopers no doubt catching on to my dire predicament. Knowing that my lifetime was trickling away by the second, I crammed my working hand into my vest pocket, yanking out a fresh clip just as a BHSF troop emerged from the smoke, bringing up his M16 to mow me down, and the fresh clip clicked home into my MP5, but it was too late, the BHSF troop was already firing— no, his gun bucked and jittered in his hands, but that was because he was shaking, as if in a seizure, the whole top of his head missing…

"Get a grip, rookie!" Agent Toph yelled out as she reloaded her weapon, taking position besides me. She shot me a glance, "Still think you don't need my help?"

I heard the seriousness in her voice, yet her concern for me rang out the most. She saved my life. Although I was grateful to her, it still made me feel guilty. I opened my mouth to speak, wanting to apologize for my earlier behavior, to say sorry for acting like such a dick, to at least make amends to my savior, but my voice cracked when I tried, and she waved me off, signaling for me to cover her back. I shakily did so, my aim completely shot with the stress of the situation.

"SWEET's dead," Toph said, her solemn voice punctuating the reality of it all. "They blew out his knees, then gunned him down like a dog. I saw it, I was the closest one to him. But I paid them back, shot them down right after. The rest of the team… it's just you and me now, rookie. Here, take this."

I quickly looked over my shoulder to see her holding a case containing a computer disk over hers, and gingerly took it, my thumb smearing the spatters of red on the label.

"You know what to do with this, right?" she demanded as I palmed the disk tightly. "Just put it in the mainframe and it'll do all the work."

I nodded to her, remembering that I had drilled myself over the mission a hundred times over before I even took the job— because the mission objective had to be completed at all costs. The mission objective had top priority over everything else.

"Go to the mainframe!" Agent Toph said. "I'll cover you, rookie. Don't die on me, huh?"

I went, then turned to say thanks because it was the least I could do for her, but she shoved me back and said, "No, there's no time. C'mon, move your ass!"

My shoulder burned incessantly and I glanced down at the wound, seeing that the bullet had made a clean exit into the front and out the back… it could be easily patched up. But I didn't have time and I could stand the pain for now. So I ran, stumbling twice over the dead corpses of my fellow agents littering the floor, and threw myself onto the mainframe computer, slipping my fingers around the sides to feel for the disk slot, and felt the metal slit to insert the disk. Cracking open the case, I slid the disk in, waiting for it to work. The seeking program in the disk automatically started up with a cheery _ping_ noise, quickly locating and opening hundreds of files simultaneously.

By now, the smoke started to thin out into wisps, and I could make out agent Toph ducking under cover behind the desks, returning fire as the BHSF troops retreated to the hallway, shooting back at her. Office supplies launched up around her, propelled by the enemy bullet barrage kicking up a storm in a fruitless attempt to hit the agent.

I looked back at the computer screen and saw that the program had completed its work in record time, barely a few seconds, and tapped the eject option, reaching out to pull out the disk and replace it back into its tray. But Toph's sudden scream snared my attention, forcing me to turn back to see her hit the wall, slouching down with a red stain tracking behind her from the wall to the ground, her chest gouting blood. She clutched madly at the leaking wound, looked back at me. Her sudden, astonished, helpless laughter was as ghastly as the wound, emphasized by the wet, sobbing coughs that trailed after.

"Ow… Shit! They got me. Actually got me," she said. I could barely hear her through her high-pitched wheezing. "With their shitty aim? Heh. Who would've thought, r-right?"

She reached out to me with one shaking hand. I couldn't help but bring up a trembling hand to signal her to keep her cover. Or maybe I was reaching back to her.

"Rookie. Hey, c-c'mon… Help…" she croaked, accompanied by a sickeningly dry whistling sound timing along with her own frantic breaths. "Please… h-help!"

Toph… she needed me. She saved my life before, I would've been dead without her. And now, she needed my help. It wasn't too late, maybe she could be saved. It was my turn to return the favor. I moved forward to do just that, my hand drifting towards the med-kit fashioned to the back of my utility belt, but a pinging noise from the mainframe prompted me to snap my head around to look once more, the text display on the screen telling me that the disk drive was ejected, but still contained the disk.

I held the empty disk case in my hands, swiveling my frustrated gaze from the valuable disk to agent Toph, her proud form crumpled inwards into a fetal position, shuddering as she tipped over to her side, grasping her crimson-stained chest, her gas mask and helmet lying next to her feet— the agent had ripped it away to try and get more oxygen in her deteriorating system, to try and survive.

Toph's black pixie-cut hair, drenched with sweat, swathed the sides of her face which, if not currently contorted in a tortured expression of pain, could have been quite strikingly pretty in other, more peaceful circumstances. My savior reached out at me once more, hot tears spilling from her wide, beautiful pale-green eyes, her crimson-sprayed lips pursing in a silent cry for help.

"_Rook… ie…"_ she wheezed, the lethal whistling sound now prevalent in her voice. _"Pleeeease..."_

I reached out towards her again, this was terrible, she couldn't die like this, not like this, then I saw the BHSF troops silently filing in from the corridors into the front doorway, spreading into attack formation. Against my will, instead of going to her, I snatched the disk out of the mainframe, pressing it into its case, and snapped the case shut. I stared at it, incredulous.

I had just completed mission objective 1: To secure the files into the disk. Now I had to complete the second mission: To get the file back to Umbrella.

But what about agent Toph? What about my team? Toph wasn't dead yet, but she was mortally wounded and God, her face was so pale, she was definitely fading. The rest of my team, some of the agents scattered on the floor and the tables could have been still alive, could've been breathing, but there was no time to check. There was no time to help anymore. There was no time left at all.

The mission objective. It had to be completed. I had to finish it. If I didn't, this would all be for nothing. The mission objective had top priority over everything else. Including my team. And Toph.

"_Ohh…" _Toph croaked out, her unfocused eyes trained on me. With her vitality seeping from those eyes, her last act in life was to watch as I made my decision. I took one step back, paused, then took another, slinking away from her, away from the line of fire of the BHSF.

I almost, but not quite, missed Toph closing her eyes for the last time as her life drained completely away, her pale, bloody, cracked lips silently mouthing her final words: _"…You selfish bastard."_

I ran full-tilt out the back entrance and into the hallway, scanning for the door to the stairs, agent Toph's final words, her curse, digging deep into my soul, wrenching hold of my heart. As I barreled through the stair doors and sprinted my way up the stairs, the smattering footsteps of the BHSF troops hot on my tracks, I tried to reassure myself that there was no other way, that there had been no time, that there was nothing I could have possibly done for her. They were casualties of war, and Toph, though she fought her best, was just a casualty now. If I tried to help, if I tried to be a hero, if I stayed any longer than I did, I would've joined them in that blood-slicked room. I would've been just another casualty.

The assurances felt like hollow, false, flimsy excuses, but it was all I had in my defense. I ran through the helipad doorway, staggering out into the open, the Umbrella chopper shining in the sunlight like a miracle of God. At that moment, I had never seen something so beautiful. I ran towards it, heard the shouts of the BHSF troops behind me, and turned in an exhausted circle to face my enemies.

"I'm not gonna die," I coughed out breathlessly as my injured hand rifled through one of my pockets, taking out a fragment grenade. "You are."

I leveled my MP5 towards the cluster of the troops, and with great effort, I threw the grenade as the troops got into a firing rifle line, all of them hastily pointing their M16s my way.

But I was quicker, the muzzle of my gun following the arc of the frag grenade until it sank into their midst, and ignoring the throbbing pain in my shoulder, I pulled the trigger, hitting it directly, detonating the grenade. The BHSF even didn't stand a chance, every one of them were wiped out in the blast, all of the troops blown out of their smoking boots and landing on the floor in smoking, shredded heaps.

I stayed there as the chopper droned on behind me, hyperventilating in my mask. I moved to take it off, but ran my fingers over it instead, feeling the smooth black leather and the cold metal frames of the red lenses, and tried my best to slow my breathing down with deep breaths.

Aching, bleeding, and moving like a zombie, I hauled myself into the chopper, throwing myself bodily into the seats as I thrust my MP5 into the Alpha Team gun rack, ignoring it as it fell off and clanged solidly to the floor.

The pilot Night Hawk spared me a casual glance as he asked, "Anyone else coming?"

It took me a while to muster out, "No. It's just me. I'm the only one left in Alpha Team."

Night Hawk blinked slowly, tsk-tsking gently to himself, and said, "Is that so? How unfortunate."

The co-pilot, codenamed Boxer 3, regarded me with incredulous awe. He blurted out, "My God, man, I saw it. I saw it all. You took 'em down with one shot. An entire army, just like that, you just wasted 'em like they were nothin'. You ain't a rookie, man, you gotta be a ringer. I mean, you were like— you were channelin' the Grim Reaper out there or some shit… You were just like Death personified!"

Night Hawk turned in his seat and looked me over as he started the chopper, the chopper lifting into the air in a flourish.

"Just like Death, hmm? And you're the only one who survived? Just you, out of all those men," he said, slowly scanning me from head to toe.

Night Hawk's smile was dark and grim as he added, with a slight mocking tone, "Well, then. Welcome to Alpha Team, or what's left of it. It will be quite interesting to work with you… Mr. Death."

* * *

**NOTE: **Is this WIN?


	5. FIVE

**NOTE: **He's not feelin' too good right now, but he's still a fighter, dammit!

* * *

My eyes snap open as my fingers tingle as they press against the Kevlar and steel-weave, the steel-blue feeling in my hands blossoming through the false vessel that currently serves as my body, as I trace my withered fingers on my real body, the USS uniform is an ice-cold drink of water after years of wandering an endless desert— the desert of my life.

"Please, Mr. Cooper, please listen to me," the nurse says, her eyes wide in fraught concern. "You mustn't be out of bed… it's not safe for you. You must listen, Mr. Cooper!"

The nurse tries to pull me away once more. This time, I slowly turn to her, the uniform on the wall before me transferring my long-lost identity of old into my failing vessel of a body. My throat feels as if it's knitting together, my frayed larynx and ragged trachea fortifying hard enough for me to be able to gulp down fresh air and clear it with a nasal scraping sound. My warped spine, the reason why my posture's permanently sunken and hunched over, the maladjusted plates of my spine re-aligns straight by its own volition, allowing to me to straighten myself up, an act I haven't been able to do for a very long time. So it's not the dying Mr. Cooper with the whisper-soft wheezing voice who faces the nurse, it's Mr. Death who locks gazes with her, with steel-grey irises and glacial intonation.

Mr. Death identity comfortably fitting me like a glove once more, the ghost of my lost teeth crunching firmly in my gums, my voice tinged with bitter winter, I say to her, "Shut up. Be quiet. Listen."

She does.

"I'll tell you this only once, civilian. I'm going to finish my mission," I tell her. "The mission objective has top priority over everything else. All obstacles are to be removed. By any force necessary."

I step closer to her and she steps back, gasping uncontrollably, her red lips quivering as my eagle eyes, arctic tone, and impassive expression pins her to the wall.

"Now, civilian— nurse…" my gaze flickers down to her nametag, and I ignore the unimportant name just as quickly. "Tell me."

A blast of cold fury accompanies my next words: "Are you going to be an obstacle?"

As I loom down on her at my full height, Mr. Death in all my essence, she flattens herself on the wall, reduced to a frightened wreck. She shuts her eyes, stammering incoherently before she can clearly whisper, "N-no, sir."

I nod curtly and step back, giving the nurse some much-needed space. "Get out."

She's only too glad to do so, scrambling out of the room and leaving her tray behind, no doubt running to request help from her fellow orderlies or a high-ranking doctor. Her quick, rabbit-like footsteps recede from the hall, and to my horror, I can feel my strength leaving me already, seeping out my pores, the uniform on the wall unsympathetically sucking back my identity, and I feel myself physically shrinking down from the terribly-intimidating Mr. Death down to the feeble, dying Mr. Cooper.

No… Stop. Stop! Jesus. I can't fucking take this anymore. I can't keep having the traces of my real identity empowering me, only to feel it disappear like a switch. It's unbearable, excruciating, worse than any form of torture— it _is_ the very nexus of torture, to feel my old self, my true self, coming in and out in a constant, unreliable flux… I want it back. Not just a fleeting taste. I want it _all_ back, forever!

But I have to hurry, because there isn't much time left. I don't know how, I don't really care to know, but I can feel that Mr. Death isn't staying in the uniform for long. As the painful truth reveals itself, unraveling in my addled mind, dismay fills me and wrenches my heart with fresh panic… I realize with a solid certainty that if too much time is allowed to pass, then the uniform, containing the lethal legendary identity waiting inside, will become just another vessel, an ordinary uniform with nothing left inside.

Quickly now, I organize the mission objectives in a flash, envisioning how I'll do it like I've done it countless times in my golden years: Gloves are first. Next, the jacket. Then the pants, then the boots. After that, the gear. Then the dog tags. Finally, the mask, finishing up with the helmet.

The gloves first, because I need the strength of my hands, my real hands, to be able to put on the rest of the uniform. It's so damned difficult for my arthritic false hands to pull out the pins that hold the black leather gloves in place, they're shaking so much and have long been misshapen into gnarled, mottled claws, but I manage to tug out the pins and they fall soundlessly to my feet. The black gloves slip into my wrinkled, calloused palms with a crisp, crinkling sound, a sound I have missed dearly. Slowly, reverently, I slip them on, each finger worming through the grooves, and the resilient vigor bubbling inside my real hands feels so heavenly good. With the real hands in place, the flattened knuckles popping into place, the shrunken fingers stretching out, I look down and see that they're completely still, hard like granite. Bringing my gloved hands together, I clench the fingers open, closing them, turning them over to look at the simple, yet masterful stitching on the palms and the sides.

Then I do something I never thought I'd be able to do again, I crack my knuckles, savoring the satisfying crunch, and I'm staggered by the delightful euphoric rush that flows into my false vessel. If only the gloves could do this, then putting on the whole uniform... my hands scrabble at the uniform, almost ripping it off the wall, but I push it back, smoothing back the crumpled folds, hyperventilating with my newfound lungs.

Don't get greedy, I admonish myself. Finish the mission, yes, but don't be sloppy about it. Don't rush through the objectives like a selfish rookie. Be meticulous, be professional, be perfect.

Be the best. Again.

Forcing myself to still my jangling nerves, to curb the roaring, insatiable hunger to have my identity right this very moment, I rip open my hospital clothes. Dropping them to the floor, I can feel the cool air swathing my deteriorating vessel.

Then I unpin the black tactical jacket on the wall, not hearing the pins drop to the floor. I pull the jacket off the wall, the dog tags pinned under the mask jangling as the jacket leaves its place. I can't help but quickly slip my sore, emaciated arms through the sleeves, the upper half of my body quadrupling in intensity, my sunken chest puffing out like a proud peacock, my stomach, once loose and flabby and yet gaunt inside, now crunching tight, as if the washboard abs I used to have are materializing back, filling out my upper torso in miraculous ways. My arms, no longer soft and scrawny, are now pure sinewy muscle, thick and strong. God, the power, the might, it is deliciously orgasmic— what I would give for an iron weight bar to bench-press, to lift, to utilize all the golden old, yet refreshingly new muscles to their breaking point!

Feeling a thin string of spittle drool down my cheek, I absently wipe it away, stopping at the sight of the crimson smear on my gloved fingers. I dab at my nose, take a glance, and I confirm blood is leaking out. The presence of the blood sobers me out of my primal joy, I realize that I'm losing it. The uniform's not the only one with a ticking time limit. My mind's starting to crack from the pressure of the sheer amount of control I have to exert over myself. Oh, come on! Enough with the perfection shit, you procrastinating asshole, I have to hurry, I have to go back to the war! I have to go now! Now! NOW!

No. The gas mask stares at me again, and for once, I can see my face, this inescapable fake mask, reflected on the red lenses of my true face— the gas mask. I gape in shock, the face of my vessel looks like one of the undead virus carriers in one of my missions long past. It's disturbing, especially in contrast to my filled-out upper torso, pumped up and ready for the war. I nod, understanding, the gas mask, with its eye-pieces tilted in a disapproving gaze, is sending me a message.

It tells me that I must keep steady. I must keep calm. I must go through the routine like I always do, because it's the right way to gear up the uniform, it's the _only_ way it'll work. I got lucky with the jacket. If I rush through the rest, the spirit inside will disperse forever. I have to give the uniform its due respect. But it takes so much effort to slow down, and the wait is so agonizingly long. Nevertheless, I cross out the second mission objective, zipping up my jacket.

To my surprise, the pants doesn't give me as much trouble as the jacket. My upper torso and arms work flawlessly, like clockwork, so I slip into the routine so much more easily, even while hindered by creaking, stiff-jointed legs. After the pants slide up my waist, my legs are now strong and limber enough for me to stand perfectly.

The boots are next. Without the usual socks, I feel the leather pleasantly encasing my feet, the steel plate interwoven on the front is cold on my toes. Testing them, I stand on the balls of my feet. No crippling, wrenching pain hits my calves. Just the satisfying crunch of the muscles in my feet.

The gear looks complicated, all those buckles and belts and pockets, but it's like field-stripping a pistol— when you've done it long enough, your body, no matter how degraded, will never forget. The gear is easy, it snakes around my body, snug on my second skin, the buckles clicking closed with finality. Everything is going perfect. The mission is going off without a hitch.

It's only when I take the dog tags off the wall, looking it over and seeing my name, my true name, embossed on the thin metal, the interruption begins.

Outside the room, the timid, nervous voice of that fucking unbelievable nurse blatting away, "Mr. Cooper's standing on his own two feet, and he's even talking. _Talking! _I-I tried to tell him that he had to stay in bed, but he just won't listen to reason. I think he's delirious, the poor man! He needs help, doctor."

The door swings open, revealing the obstacles to my mission: The insipid little bitch nurse comes in first, followed by two other nurses, with a doctor with the stereotypical stethoscope around his neck right behind them.

"Mr. Cooper!" they say in unison. It'd be almost funny if it wasn't so goddam bothersome. As they suddenly burst out in nonsensical pleas for my safety, babbling with empty placating gestures, the familiar calm, but cold rage bubbles up inside me. I seethe my remaining teeth, ferociously indignant at the sheer nerve of the obstacles, always getting in my way.

I know it's a mistake, letting my emotions get the best of me like this, but I make it anyway, to get rid of the strobing red spots peppering my vision, I close my eyes…

* * *

**NOTE: **Fight for your life, man! Fight for your right to wear creepily-designed gear that looks like BSDM on steroids! Or a T-virus...


End file.
